Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers! Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise WILLIAM DRUMMOND. SONNET. WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moon, tell me, Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. SONNET. As I have seen the lady of the May Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again; And none returneth empty that have spent His pains to fill their rural merriment. SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, The primrose wan, and harcbell mildly blue. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; CHARLOTTE SMITH. EVENING ODE. TO STELLA. EVENING now from purple wings |